Edward Hoe Writes His Story
by Blossomlily
Summary: Here is the story of Edward John Hoe, exSeeker of the English Quidditch team.


Edward Hoe Writes His Story

Hello, reader. Here is a story I never intended to put down on paper. I'm no writer. I'm a simple enough man with simple enough thoughts. And here I am, putting down these thoughts for others around me. This may be allowed to be published. Or it may not. I don't know that. But I do know that I will probably not… be around if you are reading this. I will be far, far away in some sunny garden with sweet flowers and fair maidens and delicious fruits all around me. In Heaven.

Or I might be in the deepest, darkest corners of Hell.

But I am here to tell you my own story. My name is Edward John Hoe. You might have heard of me, an ex-Seeker for the English National Quidditch team. Or you mightn't have. But that doesn't matter. You see, though my fiery love for the game will never die out, Quidditch has become a thing of the past to reminisce about. And I'm not here to tell you my glorious victories. I wish, dear reader, to tell you the story of my life.

As a boy, I was an idiot. I am dropping my ego in saying this, because it is true. I was an idiot because I almost got taken in by Shirley.

Shirley Levy… Ever heard of that name? Of course you wouldn't have. Shirley is the woman who almost ruined my life. But I didn't let her. I won our pathetic little contest in the end.

Now, I suppose I'm being rather confusing here. I've never been good at telling stories and such things. Come to think of it, I'm not even that much of a conversationalist. So, to make everything crystal clear, let me begin from the beginning.

On August 21, 1969, a tiny baby was born to Audrey and John Hoe. That was me. My birth, I have been told, was a significant event purely because my parents, the Hoes, were rather important in the town we lived in. I remember imagining it all in my childhood. The mansion would have been filled with friends and neighbours; my parents, Audrey and Peter as I think of them in my head, were great party holders. I imagined elaborate parties with John in expensive tuxedos and Audrey in fine silk gowns. I imagined Audrey's lark-like laugh – pleasant and ringing – drowning out the others' chatters and murmurs. I can imagine her floating over the garden, her swishy skirts spread out around her. I can imagine John looking hot and uncomfortable, perhaps red in the face, trying to play the charming host. At least, that is what I remember of him when I knew him.

But things changed a lot when Shirley arrived, I suppose. Or perhaps it all happened gradually. To put things in a chronological order, I should say it all began when my mother, Audrey, engaged Shirley as her personal assistant. They got on well together, and, as Eugene the cook told me, the household was fairly subdued and orderly under Shirley's guidance. Audrey was no homemaker. When Shirley showed signs of responsibility, running the household instantly became her job.

But then, when I turned two, Audrey fell very ill. No one knew what to do, and she in bed like a helpless creature, dependent on Shirley, her assistant, nurse, companion and everything else.

No one thought anything of it, and as several months passed, Audrey's condition grew weaker and weaker. Then, one wintry December night, Audrey lost her battle against death and fell down – deep down, into an abyss of darkness…

I don't understand much of what happened after Audrey went, because the things I've told you now were narrated to me by our cook, Eugene, who had worked with us for as long as I could remember. But I'll place the story before you as I heard it. Shirley, who had nursed my sick mother, was kept on by my father as a governess for me to spend long hours in the study with. I don't remember much of those sessions, but I can tell you that Shirley was the sweetest governess a motherless child could have. She home-schooled me and at the same time helped my poor father handle the affairs of the house. You see, John had been nothing more than a poor, unemployed youth when he met my mother. Audrey, on the other hand, was an immensely wealthy orphan. Because of this, I presume, John was glad to deposit everything in Shirley's hands.

A year passed and John Hoe found himself falling in love with Shirley Levy.

On October 19, 1976, the wedding bells rang out for John Hoe and Shirley Levy.

In the winter of 1978, John fell gravely ill. He was supposedly suffering from the same disease which took Audrey. Shirley sat by the side of his bed day and night, tending to my poor father. Or house looked like a huge, silent cathedral, then, devoid of the usual sound of Shirley's voice. I remember thinking that the showers of light through the huge French windows with the stained glass seemed to fall on nothing in particular – the light seemed to be restricted from falling on us by some invisible force. The plush furniture seemed layered with dust despite the servants' endless cleaning. I remember avoiding the wing of the house my father's room was in except for occasional visits when I was certain that Shirley wasn't inside and my father was asleep.

My father died a month later, and Shirley organized a quiet funeral in the village Church, where most of our friends gathered with us. I remember how Shirley looked particularly entrancing that day. Her face looked pale and stricken; her eyes were red and swollen, as though she'd cried herself to sleep. Dressed in a rich black cotton gown, which smoothly contrasted her white face and hands, I thought that she looked like a ghost. A mad ghost.

We walked back home together that day, Shirley gripping my chubby hand as though I was the adult and she was the child. I could sense a feeling of odd protectiveness rising in my when she interlocked her thin fingers with mine. I brushed that feeling away immediately. For some reason, I felt an odd helplessness…

The morning after my father's funeral, the first thing Shirley did was fire Eugene. I wouldn't have known about it if our cook, our friend, hadn't come to my bedroom to bid me a tearful goodbye. I was very surprised at what Shirley had done.

I told Shirley, "You didn't have to dismiss Eugene now."

Shirley gave an odd shiver. Then, she looked at me with wide eyes. "Edward, we cannot afford servants in this house now. Especially Eugene. Now that John's… gone, we cannot afford her. She has to go."

"Look, why are you worrying about money? My father's left us enough. You can't live in this house and worry about money," I said, hoping to talk some sense into her.

She took a deep breath. "The money your father left for us cannot come to my – our hands before you are of age. He – he has left us to make do with what we have now. Until then, we have to survive with this." Her tone had a defeated, bitter note to it.

"Besides," she continued softly, "it's about the two of us living together. You don't know me well and I don't know you. We have to start living like a family. We can begin doing that by me cooking for you."

I have told you before that I used to act like an idiot. I'll say it again now. My hopes were raised by those words. _Maybe Shirley wasn't that bad after all. Maybe she hadn't meant to keep my father away from me. Maybe I'd been too hard on them both… Maybe she really likes me… _I couldn't have been more wrong. Eugene, the only person I ever talked a lot with, left. All because I thought I should make friends with Shirley, as she wished I would. Shirley continued to teach me. Only, I didn't learn. Not anything useful, anyway. I did what she told me to only because I wasn't very fond of her in her tempers. One didn't want to accost Shirley Levy in a bad mood.

I suppose what I felt then was mostly helplessness. Shirley did send Eugene away, but she didn't really make friends. She was just sweet to me. As if she felt sorry for me, the poor orphan. I detested that. I didn't want anyone to feel sorry for me but myself.

It rained a lot at the time. The rain water seemed to wash something off me – some invisible dirt. As days passed, Shirley's kindness no longer appealed to me. I could see it was just put on. When she realized I didn't appreciate her being 'nice', she dropped that sweetness like a hot cake. Now she was a concerned guardian.

By then, I'd realized that all her talk of 'using money economically' was just tosh. Her expensive tastes certainly didn't die down. She continued to go out and entertain herself with her friends, hold parties and games and stuff. I felt glad that she was out of the way most of the evenings. But one night, I glimpsed at her exiting the mansion, dressed in an elegant white silk gown which I knew was my mother's – I had a photograph of her in it. I felt a horrible explosion in my stomach. I couldn't help but run to my room and lock myself in, tears stinging threateningly in my eyes.

I became a sort of living ghost, hardly talking, but staring hard at Shirley as she talked continually during mealtimes, her copper locks bouncing, her blue eyes dancing, her scarlet lips smiling… I don't know why, but Shirley always took care to talk to me all the time and ask what I wanted. But I felt an odd suffocation in me. I wanted to move. I didn't want to stay in the house all the time, talking to no one but Shirley. When I once suggested that I should go to the village school, Shirley instantly pushed my suggestion down, saying that the place was full of badly-behaved children, and I would do much better to learn from her. I remained silent.

And then dawned the Saturday morning when my entire life changed.

Shirley was an early morning bird. Even on weekends, she and I were supposed to be awake at six and at the dining table at seven for breakfast. She didn't like me to sleep in. On the Saturday I'm talking about, we were half-way through a breakfast of porridge and toast when we heard a vigorous tapping on the window. There was a snowy owl with an envelope tied to its leg, perched on the sill, which greatly excited me for I had never seen owls except in books and television. Shirley, though, looked furious. Her blue eyes flashed menacingly and she hurried to the window, tossing back her silky copper-coloured hair with authority. She flung open the window and ripped the envelope from its legs and tore it open. Her eyes widened, terrified, and she looked at me with a shocked expression on her face as though I'd done something utterly bad and unexpected. Then she tore both the envelope and the letter to pieces and flung them into the dustbin.

I felt a rush of curious thrill. What had caused Shirley to react so strongly? What was in that letter?

When Shirley went out that morning, the first thing I did was run to the dustbin and gather the pieces of the letter. To my disappointment, Shirley had torn them too thoroughly, even in her hurry. I couldn't make head or tail of the pieces. I dug into the bin again, and rummaged around for the torn envelope, hoping I could look at the postmark.

Instead, the name of the addressee caught my eye.

_Mr. E. Ho- _

The letter had been for _me_! I couldn't believe my eyes. Who would ever send a letter to me by owl? And why had Shirley acted so oddly? Why hadn't she let me read my own mail?

I felt a surge of anger. My mind cleared up. I would confront Shirley when she returned home.

It was almost evening that very day and Shirley still hadn't returned. I knew it wasn't any party of sorts. Then, where was she? I wasn't very worried, because if Shirley came home, I knew she would say that I had to study. And I had to confront her about my letter. I was a tiny bit glad that I could put that off my mind for now.

I was in the living room, reading a rather dull book, but I couldn't really take anything in because it was twilight and there was a lovely drizzle outside. I abandoned my book and went to the window to watch the activities on the street.

There was a loud, smart rap on our great oak front door. I was startled. It couldn't be Shirley because she had her own key. Who would be knocking the door? One of the neighbours? I tiptoed towards the peep-hole and peered outside, at the damp front doorstep.

I almost gasped. That was my first sight of Albus Dumbledore.

What happened after that? Well, it is much too tedious to explain everything Dumbledore told me, as I'm sure you know the gist of it, because this story of mine is for wizards' eyes not Muggles'.

And I'm not a great storyteller.

Dumbledore did tell me one important thing, though. It's far too unpleasant to think about it, let alone write it out. But I must push away my feelings. I've made up my mind to tell my story to the world, and I will most certainly attempt that to the best of my abilities, though I've never ever thought I could do something connected with literature. Even the most blood-chilling story bores me to death. Anyhow, what I have to say here is something that still sends bursts of fury coursing through my body like deadly poison – something that made me feel more helpless and devoid of strength than ever before.

On August 15, 1989, I, Edward John Hoe, learned that Shirley Margaret Levy had murdered both my parents. Using the same deadly magical stuff: essence of Hellebore. A few drops into a glass of warm milk each night to induce a light sickness. That progressed until the deadly job was complete.

And she didn't have any regrets about killing her lover, her husband, her John. That, too, had all been an act, as I had childishly thought years before. An additional glass of whisky with Love Potion for my poor blind father.

According to Dumbledore, Shirley Levy was a Squib – an ambitious one. In case you don't know what 'Squib' means, it's a person born in a wizarding family with no magical powers.

"Your stepmother – Shirley Levy – was an orphan," Dumbledore said. "Although there is absolutely no excuse for what she did – even she couldn't give me one when I interrogated her using my own means – I assume that since she couldn't manage even an ordinary life in the wizarding world, she wanted an out of the ordinary one among the Muggles."

He left the subject there. From what I found out later about the Headmaster, I sometimes wonder why he decided to disclose all the horrible details to a kid like me. Sometimes I ponder about why he didn't keep me in the dark about my past. Shirley would have disappeared from my life. And I would have remained blissfully ignorant of the gore, happy in an orphanage. What Shirley told Dumbledore when he 'interrogated' her was evidence enough for her to earn a lifetime of imprisonment in Azkaban with the terrible guards. But, no, that wasn't enough, really. What use is it to have the happy thoughts sucked out of a person, who is dismalness itself?

_I am rich. I am a former Quidditch star. I retired when I was still in excellent form. Why won't the Government grant me the permission to do what I want to do? Why, I know for certain that the Minister himself is a fan of mine. It won't matter to them if an immensely wealthy ex-Seeker wished to see an old acquaintance, who is probably fifty by now. Perhaps he decides to forgive and forget the old crimes? No… that would be a tad overdone._

_There would be a security check, of course. There would be enquiries. I wouldn't carry a lot. Just my umbrella, white silk handkerchief and the small bottle. The cough Potion – I carry it around for 'emergency purposes'. That's a phrase old people can use anywhere for anything and get away with it. I would receive dubious looks. It wouldn't matter. I'm just an ageing celebrity with eccentric ideas. I wouldn't want my things tampered with. Personal security reasons. That's a phrase celebrities always use for doing things their way. No, I need to carry everything. Even my umbrella. Even the Potion._

_Azkaban would be a grim, gloomy place – a dark, damp fortress with the shadow of doom settled upon it. Curls of black mist would swirl around it, clouding one's vision and one's sanity. At the same time, a dense, chilly air would prevail, making it difficult for one to breathe, to live. The ominous presence of the Dark creatures would clang and toll like a huge, terrible bell. And yet, they would seem to lurk only in the darkest corners, invisibly, inaudibly. My mind couldn't envision a more horrendous picture. It would, of course, be raining. Perhaps a medium drizzle – just the way I like. _

_The vile creatures would not affect me. I had encountered them before. They would be sightless, sanity-sucking, the very definition of gloom. What would they have to suck from me? Happiness? Well, I experienced that feeling a long time ago, but it really doesn't belong to me any longer. Sanity? Well, I'm sane._

_I would be escorted a human guard. It would be easy to give him the slip, though. Once he showed me the right cell and opened it for me, I would get rid of him. He would have to obey. These minor workers are easily swayed. A few coins ought to do the trick. If not… well, the poor chap might have to spend a rough night. I could manage, no doubt. There wouldn't be any problem. Not when I don't care about being caught. Everything is finished for me. Thanks to Shirley._

_I would stop before the cell. I would be alone. I would get rid of my escort? What business would he have with Shirley in the cell? It would all be up to me now. It has started with me and it will end with me._

_The door with the stiff iron bars would swing open with a sick, grating sound. My foot would step into the uneven stone floor, the mud and gravel wet from the rain, producing a crushing sound. As I move forward, taking each step slowly, deliberately, the figure huddled in the darkest corner would turn around. Despite the passage of years, I would recognize the copper hair, wet and tangled, glinting in the moonlight. I could simply not envision grey in those gleaming red locks. The face that would look up at me would be pale – alight with shock. Recognition. Fear. _

_Madness…_

_My lip would curl into a smile. The joy of reunion would seep through our minds like an obnoxious gas. She would tremble, perhaps, and get to her feet, slipping and stumbling on the moist stone, her thin hands clutching the soiled robes that covered her despicable body._

"_Edward?" Shirley's hoarse whisper would bring back a million reminisces from the past. The number of times she'd used that word on me – softly, smoothly, lovingly, caressing every syllable, penetrating her words into my head… I would remember. I still do… I wouldn't respond, though. Because things have changed – I would no longer be her Edward Hoe that night. _

_I would be her monster – red eyes glinting, white teeth flashing, muscled hands flexing._

_Yes! I would! I would move towards her as if to hug her warmly. Instead, my hands would slip over her shoulders and close around her still-smooth neck, tightening slowly like a deadly boa constrictor. There would be no resistance. _

_Shirley would be speechless; her breathing would be hoarse and infrequent and she would gasp, desperate for air. With surprising agility, two hands would fly into the air and knock mine away. But, oh, I would be stronger than the beast which has been rotting away in wizard gaol. _

_I would reach out with my left hand and grab her hair by its roots, shaking her for all my worth. The creature would open her red mouth wide in anguish, but no shriek would escape her throat; no scream would rent through the air. Only rough, maddening gasps of pain. The sound would sting my eardrums. It would have to be stopped. Oh, I would stop it at all costs._

_I would extract my Potion bottle from the inside of my robes and hold it between us, up in the air like a trophy, and watch happily as Shirley's mad eyes widened with fear. The moonlight would pour through the glass bottle, making the clear, deadly liquid sparkle. I would raise the bottle to my lips and give it a little kiss. It would be my friend, my aide that night. _

_I would loosen my grip on her hair. It would not do to have her head clouded by other pains. Oh, no. She would have to feel the pain I had in store for her. She would have to feel only that._

"_This is for my parents, you witch," I would hiss through clenched teeth. "Believe me, you're lucky. You made my parents suffer the pain and torture for one whole month in their lives. You are lucky that I will allow this to end in a few minutes."_

_I would seize the cork with my teeth, pull it off and spit it out; I would tip the bottle into her protesting mouth. She would try to spit it out, but I would pull her head back farther and tip the whole bottle into her throat. She would have no choice. She would tremble and shudder as I let go of her hair. She would feel the poison coursing through her body like an invisible fire. Her knees would buckle and she would fall to her feet, twitching._

_And after a few minutes, all would be still._

_I would lift her and settle her back in her original sitting position in the corner. Then, I would leave. But now, I would hope the Dementors wouldn't discover the death before I left. I would have to head home and finish one last task._

_You see, I would have to revise my story._

_And then, perhaps, I would take a quick shower, change into cleaner clothes, and pray a little. Maybe I could even have one last Firewhisky before it all ended – before the Dementors came for me._

You see, on August 21, 2007, I, Edward Hoe, will murder Shirley Levy.


End file.
